The Wedding Dress
by anotherredhead
Summary: A story which explores a scenario in which Kitty is the one injured in "The Disciple," and how the events that followed affected a young woman's life generations later. The setting alternates between present day Topeka and Gunsmoke Seasons 19-20.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note:** This story was inspired by an original idea from ladybrit that I thought was so good I stole it and took it in a different direction (with her kind permission). Dedicated to all the great women, real and fictional, who have ever inspired me, and to the man I met on a blind date 17 years ago today. Standard disclaimers apply.

The Wedding Dress

Chapter 1

Miranda Kramer threw on her brakes as she spotted the left turn signal on the silver car up ahead. She had driven around the block three times and had almost given up on finding a parking place in busy downtown Topeka this sunny Friday afternoon. As luck would have it, the car was pulling out directly in front of the store she had driven almost thirty miles to visit. She flipped on her right signal and smiled as the woman in the Toyota Avalon gave a courtesy wave and sped away. It wouldn't be much of a challenge to squeeze her lime green Beetle into that spot.

After a skillful parallel parking job, Miranda grabbed her purse, fed the meter, and headed into The Steamer Trunk. A bell rang as she opened the door and immediately smelled the sweet, familiar scent of potpourri. She briefly scanned the single room and its artful displays of suits, dresses, hats, and accessories. Her best friend Patty had found the place online, and it was much smaller than she had expected for "the largest collection of authentic nineteenth century clothing in the area." Then again, she supposed it was a miracle that anything from that time period was still in good enough condition to wear.

The middle-aged woman sitting behind the desk looked up from her paperback novel and took off her reading glasses. "Welcome to The Steamer Trunk," she said pleasantly. "Is there anything I can help you find?"

"I'm looking for a wedding dress," Miranda answered happily.

"Oh, how exciting!" the nice lady replied, pointing toward the corner to her right. "All of our actual wedding dresses are on the rack over there. I'm afraid there aren't many. Most of the dresses we sell are used as costumes in plays and recreation events. But you might find some of them suitable for a wedding as well. Back then, it wasn't uncommon for a woman to just get married in her best dress."

"Yes, I've heard that," Miranda replied. "Would you mind if I browsed around?"

"Of course not. Help yourself, and let me know if you have any questions."

"Thank you," Miranda returned as she walked over to the rack of off-white and yellow hued dresses. She figured they probably had discolored from aging, but it didn't matter. White wasn't her best color, and it was hardly important to her to look virginal. The tint just accentuated the antique look that she found desirable.

She perused the relatively small selection, holding each one up to her body. They were all uniquely beautiful, some covered in delicate lace or beads, others more plain with subtle ruffles around the collars and sleeves. She loved the fact that they were so distinctive and not at all like the cookie cutter dresses she had seen at the mall, most of which looked like a creampuff had exploded. Miranda liked to be different, and she had no interest in becoming dream wedding Barbie.

She had inherited an appreciation and fascination for the nineteenth century from her mother, who had soaked up all the stories of the wild west that her great-grandmother had told her as a small child. When Miranda was in third grade her mom dressed her as Scarlett O'Hara for Halloween. None of her friends had a clue who she was supposed to be, but Miranda didn't care. She held her bag out at each door and said, "Fiddle dee dee!" instead of "Trick or treat," and the adults found her irresistible. She got more candy that year than any other. When she started planning her wedding, she couldn't think of a more fitting tribute to her mother than having a Victorian theme.

Miranda's mind wandered as she imagined the women who had worn these dresses well over a century ago. How did they feel on their wedding days? Were their marriages happy? And perhaps most importantly, how did such personal, treasured possessions end up on a rack of anonymous clothing to be sold to strangers playing dress up? It almost seemed wrong, as though she was borrowing someone's identity.

As she held up the last one, Miranda knew one thing for sure—no matter how much she loved these dresses, she would not fit into any of them. She was hardly a large woman—a healthy, fit size 10—but none of them looked like they were bigger than a size 6. Women were generally smaller back then, and while she was handy with a sewing machine, she couldn't magically grow more fabric.

With a heavy sigh she placed the final dress back on the rack. It had been an interesting experience, but it appeared that her wedding dress was not at The Steamer Trunk. Still, she had driven thirty miles and figured she may as well see what else they had at this cute little shop of treasures. She might find a "something blue" here for her special day.

She tried on a hat with blue flowers and ribbons and a pair of gloves with blue embroidery. They were lovely, but the gloves didn't fit, and without a dress it was impossible to determine whether a hat would look right. She had the same issue with the jewelry selections. They were not exactly cheap, and what if they didn't match the rest of the outfit she eventually chose? No, she would have to find a dress before she bought anything else.

Miranda smiled and thanked the clerk before heading toward the door, checking her watch and seeing that she still had plenty of time on the meter. Maybe she would browse some other stores in the area while she was here. The bell rang as she opened the door, and she was almost to the sidewalk when something caught the corner of her eye.

The display dress in the front window hung on a mannequin that was obviously too small for it. The sleeves almost covered the hands, and the chest was clearly designed for a full figured woman instead of its waif-like model. It was sapphire blue, with a simple lace overlay on parts of the bodice and sleeves. It buttoned up the front and bustled in the back, flowing naturally instead of creating one of those hideous butt shelves.

It was exquisite. How had she missed this when she first came in? She had no idea, but whatever the reason she was going to rectify that situation. She hurried back inside, startling the clerk who had gone back to her romance novel.

"I'm sorry, but I just noticed the dress in the front window," Miranda began. "Is it for sale?"

"Oh yes, we just got that in a couple of days ago," the lady explained. "I liked it so much I decided to make it the front display. Doesn't fit the mannequin too well, though, does it?"

Miranda laughed. "No it doesn't, so it might actually fit me. May I try it on?"

"Certainly," she answered. "It might take me some time to get all those buttons undone. Sometimes I wonder how women dressed themselves back then."

"I've got time," Miranda replied excitedly. Friday was her day off this week from her job as a physician's assistant in a large medical practice. Her fiancé Brian had gone to St. Louis for the weekend to visit his family, and she had absolutely nowhere else to be today.

Ten minutes later she was in a charming fitting room equipped with a large mirror and antique looking chair. She noted its generous size given the tiny dimensions of the store itself, but the right type of Victorian dress could probably take up half the space by itself.

Miranda took off her jeans and blouse and gently stepped into the dress, careful not to damage a single stitch and thankful for the plethora of front buttons, even if they were a pain to fasten. She was prepared to suck it in if necessary, but she didn't have to. As she made her way to the very top button, she could tell that it was going to be a perfect fit.

She pulled a big barrette out of her purse and pinned her long chestnut hair into a loose bun. She sat in the chair and looked at herself in the mirror, imagining a sepia toned picture with a sharply dressed groom standing stiffly behind her. She couldn't help but smile, even though the photos from the era showed mostly stone faced subjects. This was her dress, she was almost sure of it. If only Patty had not woken up with a migraine and was able to come with her as planned. Buying a wedding dress just didn't seem like the kind of thing a girl should do alone. Ideally she would be doing it with her mother, but Miranda had lost her mother to breast cancer shortly after she graduated from college.

Luckily, she lived in the age of technology. She pulled out her iPhone and aimed it at the mirror, capturing a picture of herself taking the picture. She had to work not to laugh, trying to make it look like the Old Tyme photo she still had of her and Patty in Gatlinburg several years ago. They were saloon girls in that picture, but she knew Patty would get the reference. She highlighted Patty's e-mail address, hit "send," and hoped she was awake.

Four minutes later she had her answer when the phone meowed, her special tone alerting her to a text message. "OMG, that's the one!" read the enthusiastic response. Miranda smiled and set the phone down so she could gingerly remove what had become her future wedding dress. She had her something old, something new, and something blue—all in one dress. All she needed was something borrowed.

The lady behind the desk was thrilled, both at making a big sale and seeing such an obviously happy customer. "I think this is one of my favorite dresses that we've ever gotten in," she told Miranda honestly. "I'm glad it's going to a good home, and for such a happy occasion."

"So am I," Miranda beamed. "Thank you so much."

The purchase went on her Visa, and she would be able to pay it off next month. It was hard to believe that she could get a dress this unique for the same price as those cookie cutters. She lifted the plastic garment bag as high as she could with one hand while she opened her hatchback with the other. The back of her car sported two stickers, one saying "Save the ta-tas," with a breast cancer support ribbon, and the other proclaiming, "Well-behaved women rarely make history." That one was a gift from her mother when she bought the car, and it made her smile every time she saw it.

She stared at her meager trunk area and shook her head. _What was I thinking?_ This wasn't a Volkswagen Beetle type of dress. She would have to lay it across the back seat if she had a prayer of getting it home without crumpling it beyond recognition. She closed the hatchback and opened the driver's side door, pulling the seat forward and positioning the dress as straight as she could before taking off for the half hour ride home.

Miranda's apartment in Lawrence was on the second floor, and she carried her dress upstairs lying flat across both arms to make sure it didn't touch the ground. She had already called Brian and told him about it. No descriptions—she wanted it to be a surprise on their wedding day. But she was excited to let him know that she had found a dress to fit their theme, and he'd better start looking for that tailcoat and top hat. She chuckled as she pictured him, thinking how lucky she was that her future husband was such a good sport.

She walked into the apartment and started to hang the dress in the hall closet, but it was too pretty to stick in a closet just yet. She held it up to her again and walked into the living room where a small mirror hung on the wall. She could only see from the waist up, but she could still imagine the rest. She gently pulled the plastic above the dress and draped it over her large sectional couch to get the full effect.

A large brown and white tabby suddenly appeared on the cushion, mischievously eyeing a tempting row of buttons. "Don't even _think_ about it, Sophie," she warned as she scooped up her cat and carried her to the utility room for temporary confinement. "You barf on this, and you die," she teased, knowing from experience that it wasn't an irrational fear. She had 1500 square feet of tile and hardwood flooring, but somehow Sophie always managed to find the 5' x 8' Oriental rug when she needed to hack up a hairball. Miranda returned to the couch and ran her hand over the bare silk part of the skirt, shuddering at the thought. It was so soft, so blue, and in amazingly good condition. Someone had taken extra special care of it.

She came to a small slit in the right side where the fabric slightly separated, something she had not noticed when she tried it on at the store. Dammit. She might have gotten a discount if she had known there was a flaw, though it was barely visible and she could sew it up. She ran her finger through the slit and discovered that it was not a tear at all, it was a pocket. She hadn't missed an opportunity for a bargain after all.

What would a woman of that time period keep there? A handkerchief? She made a mental note to Google that question. Perhaps she could keep something in there for luck at her wedding. She stuck her hand in the pocket, curious about how big it was. To her surprise, she felt something inside.

She pulled out a yellow piece of paper, folded into quarters. She unfolded it, noting the thickness—quite a bit thicker than modern writing paper. The beautiful, feminine script was faded but still visible. Miranda furrowed her brow as she tried to process her discovery. Was it original to the dress? Surely not. Or could it be? She wasn't an expert, but it certainly looked like it could be from that era. She silently mouthed the words as she read from the paper:

_I, Kathleen, take thee, Matthew, to be my partner in marriage as you have been my partner in life. I promise to love and respect you, to honor and cherish you, in times of hardship as well as prosperity, in sickness and in health. I will be true to you, forsaking all others, until death parts us._

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

The Wedding Dress

Chapter 2

Matt Dillon sat in the hard wooden chair, his elbows resting on his knees and head in his hands. It was 2:45am, and on a normal day he would have been asleep for at least four hours by now. How he longed for a normal day.

She looked so small, so helpless lying on that table. A blanket was pulled up to her chest, concealing the bullet wound in her abdomen. She hadn't stirred since it happened, and he had no way of knowing if she ever would. He was in hell's waiting room, just as he had been two years ago. Sitting in the same chair, feeling the same agony.

Matt was a spiritual man, though not a religious one in the traditional sense. He wasn't much for public displays of worship, or public displays of anything else for that matter. He had never been a big talker, not even silently to his maker. But he had prayed that night—longer and harder than ever before.

She had been clinging to life by a thread then too, and he was to blame. He should never have left her alone, vulnerable to the twisted revenge fantasies of his enemies. They had taken her, abused her, and the moment he saw what they had done he knew his life would never be the same. If she lived, the scars would be a daily reminder of the price she had paid for loving him. If she died, he wouldn't have the desire or ability to go on without her.

And so he had prayed that night, begging, pleading, bargaining, as people are known to do when they are powerless to do anything else. He vowed that if she lived, he would try to forgive himself and spend the rest of his days making it up to her. She had given him the best years of her life—eighteen years of friendship and loyalty, of intimacy and passion—and he had given her eighteen years of maybes and somedays. This was someday, he had decided. If she made it through this, he would take Doc's advice and retire with dignity from the job that had kept such a stranglehold on him, but which he knew was better suited to a younger body that time and injury had not yet compromised. He would whisk her away from the sorry drunks and roughneck cowboys and make sure she didn't have to spend another night serving drinks until her back hurt. They had both worked hard their whole lives, and they had earned this. In middle age, Matt Dillon would finally settle down and marry the woman he had loved almost longer than he could remember.

He liked to think that his prayers had made the difference, and maybe they had. But he suspected it was her own strength and determination that had pulled her through that ordeal. Against all odds, she had survived.

Yet here he sat two years later, the badge on his chest advertising his betrayal like a scarlet letter and his lover once again slipping away from him. The circumstances were very different, but he felt no less responsible. Had he retired like he promised—like she deserved—they would have been enjoying their coffee at some quiet, private ranch this morning instead of a table in the saloon where she still had to earn a living. She wouldn't have needed to make a deposit at the bank, and she wouldn't have walked into the line of fire as the lookout for the bank robbery in progress followed orders to kill anyone who threatened to thwart their efforts. The sound of that shot had been exploding in his head all day, with a slow motion replay of a blast so powerful it had thrust her body almost all the way back to his chair. He would give anything to be lying on that table instead of her, but then she would be in his place, bearing a deeper wound that causes even greater suffering. She had been in that chair too many times before.

The room was completely silent except for clock on the wall, ticking away each second and chiming on the hour. Doc had offered to take shifts with him through the night, to watch the shallow breaths and pray that they kept getting stronger. At this point, just like last time, it was all anyone could do. But by midnight Matt had insisted that he could take the whole night, telling Doc that he wasn't tired instead of admitting that he thought she might die and he couldn't bear the thought of not being there.

He had barely been able to look Doc in the face when he rushed her lifeless body up those stairs, the hideous stain spreading through her white blouse. Doc loved her too, probably more than anyone in the world other than Matt. He had been there for her two years ago as well, every agonizing minute of it. And when she pulled through then, Doc had rested easy knowing that the days of digging bullets out of his closest friends were almost over. After tracking down her attackers, Matt had told him that he was done. That nothing makes you realize what you have until you almost lose it, and he wasn't going to risk losing her again.

What had gone wrong? He had every intention of following through with his plans, he had even written a letter of resignation. On the way to mail it, the telegraph operator had delivered an urgent message to him regarding an escaped convict he had helped put in prison. The man was extremely dangerous and was now on the loose, free to terrorize innocent citizens. He had to find him.

She had told him she understood. Her wounds were healing nicely, the physical ones anyway, and she figured she could do this one last time. The waiting, the worrying, the uncertainty. He would complete this duty, and then she could put The Long Branch up for sale and start looking for the house they had been discussing.

Except that he returned to learn that the Cordry gang had left a trail of robberies and dead bodies from Garden City to Great Bend, and they hadn't been caught. And after that, it was something else. Always something else. Somehow, almost two years had gone by and the resignation letter still sat in his desk drawer.

He knew it was nothing short of a miracle that she had stayed with him. She'd even had a proposal from a man who fell head over heels in love with her almost the moment he met her. Matt certainly understood how that could happen. This man had offered her a home, a commitment, and painfully, she had considered it.

_Matt, tell me to say no to Will Stambridge._ It was such a small request, one he could have fulfilled so easily. It had nearly ripped his insides out seeing her with another man, and he wanted to say it, to shout it. _Say no to Will Stambridge. I love you, and it will kill me if you leave. Please don't give up on us._

But that's not what he had done. He hadn't earned the right to tell her not to leave, and it felt wrong to pretend he had. So he told her it was a decision that only she could make. She knew that, but he would never forget the disappointment on her face when he said it. He should have given her more.

The clock on the wall chimed three times, and Matt flinched as the first chime startled him out of his internal conversation. He quickly searched her face, checking for any sign of reaction to the sound. She remained perfectly still, her chest still slowly rising and falling. He took her limp hand and enveloped it in his, squeezing tightly enough that he could feel the ring on her finger. It was the promise ring he had given her many years ago, when it didn't seem to matter so much if marriage had to wait because they had all the time in the world. He had told her then that it was just as meaningful as a wedding ring, a promise to be faithful and spend their lives together even though he couldn't marry her right now.

Matt twisted the ring back and forth, gently caressing her finger as he did so. _Some promise_. He closed his eyes and prepared to ask for one more miracle.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

The Wedding Dress

Chapter 3

Miranda set her laptop aside and rubbed her eyes. She had been surfing for almost two hours and could hardly pull herself away.

She was almost certain that the vows she had read at least a dozen times now were written on rag paper. Through most of the 19th century paper was made from clothing rags, which meant that the fibers were durable cotton or linen instead of the more decomposable wood pulp. Rag paper was all but obsolete by the turn of the 20th century, being much more expensive than its new cellulose replacement. If she was right about this, the original owner of that dress could very well have put that paper in the pocket.

Was it Kathleen? Or was she keeping it for a friend?

The wording of the vows intrigued her. They were steeped in tradition yet clearly personalized, which had to be a rarity for the time. And there was a glaring omission. Kathleen had promised to love and respect, to honor and cherish. It was a time when women literally belonged to their husbands, and everything they owned became their husbands' property as well. They were taught to keep the house, take care of the children, be submissive—and obey. Women had promised for centuries to love, honor, and obey, and it had only been in the past few decades that women had insisted on dropping that archaic pledge. Yet Kathleen had done so well over a hundred years ago.

Miranda delicately unfolded the paper and read the words one more time. Could she possibly trace its origin? She became consumed with the idea of learning more about this nineteenth century trail blazer and the man who wanted to spend his life with her.

She had called The Steamer Trunk to check their hours before leaving that morning, so the number was still on her phone. She placed another call and recognized the voice of the nice clerk on the other end.

"Hi, this is Miranda Kramer. I was just in your store and bought a dress."

"Yes, hello Ms. Kramer," came the chirpy reply. "Oh dear, I hope there's not a problem with it."

"No, not at all," Miranda assured her. "I'm just interested in finding out more about it. You said you had gotten it in a couple of days ago. Would you be able to tell me where it came from?"

"Well, I might," she answered. "My partner bought it at an estate sale over the weekend. I believe it was advertised in the Topeka Capital-Journal. Hold on, let me see if I can find it."

Miranda heard the clicking of keys as the lady searched the archives of the local newspaper. "Yes, here it is. 'Estate Sale. 4738 Old Orchard Road. Antique furniture and clothing. Sunday 1-5.'"

Miranda had a pen and paper handy and wrote down the information. "Do you have a phone number?" she asked hopefully.

"I'm afraid not," she replied. "My partner just went to the sale like everyone else. We didn't have any further dealings with them."

"Okay, thank you so much," Miranda said sincerely before hanging up. She stared at the address on the paper. What should she do with it? She was an outgoing type, but not exactly comfortable showing up on some stranger's front porch asking personal questions about a deceased loved one. She picked up her laptop and tried to do a reverse look-up using the address, but no such luck.

Where was this place? She typed it into Google maps and zoomed out. It was just north of the Kansas River, in an area that looked like it might be rural but still not far from downtown. Miranda glanced at her watch and noted that it was just about dinner time. She should be hungry, but she wasn't—she was too distracted to think of food.

She paced the floor, looking back and forth between the two papers—one a mysterious piece of history that beckoned her to dig deeper, the other containing information that might help her do it. Miranda wasn't a spontaneous person, she was a planner. Yet something told her not to think this to death—just do it. She grabbed her purse and both pieces of paper and headed out of her comfort zone to an unknown house on Old Orchard Road.

**GSGSGSGSGSGSGSGSGS**

Miranda listened closely to her GPS as she curved around the exit ramp of the highway. _Thank God for these things_. She and Brian both had such a bad sense of direction that their friends joked it was a miracle they had found each other.

She smiled at the thought of her fiancé. She had met him not long after her mother died, without a doubt the darkest period of her life. She wasn't quite sure how he had fallen in love with her under such circumstances, but she tried not to question it. He was the best thing that had ever happened to her, and after almost five years of working crap jobs and struggling through law school, he finally felt like he was husband material. She had thought so all along, but he had insisted on waiting until he had graduated and was employed at a place that didn't require him to wear a hat with a chicken on it.

Time had dulled the pain, but Miranda still ached for her mother. She would approve of Brian—wouldn't she? He was smart, funny, thoughtful, and had a future. Most importantly, he treated her like gold and made her happy. She thought about some of her former loser boyfriends and her mother's brutally honest assessment of them. "You'll thank me later," she would tell her skeptical only daughter. "You're young, and you don't know as much as you think you do. One day you will meet a guy who deserves you. Don't settle, Miranda—wait for him." It would always make her mad, of course, as every young woman is genetically programmed to be whenever her mother suggests she doesn't know everything.

Miranda's eyes misted at the memories. She knew Brian was the right guy, but what she wouldn't give for her mother to get to say, "See, I told you so." A girl never outgrows the yearning for a mother's love and advice. She was grateful for Patty, but best friends were different. She had once sent Patty a card that said, "A good friend will bail you out of jail. A great friend will be sitting there next to you going, 'Damn, that was fun.'" Patty was that kind of friend, loyal to a fault. Her mom would be the one pulling her out by the ear saying, "What the hell were you thinking?" She was a grown woman now, hopefully wiser, but how she missed that unconditional honesty and guidance.

The British lady she had chosen to give her GPS a sophisticated voice announced her successful arrival._ Your destination is on the right_. Miranda pulled into the driveway at 4738 Old Orchard Road and looked at the small, 60's style house with the single car garage and cute front porch. It looked like the kind of place June and Ward Clever might live. What if they were eating dinner? She hated bothering people. She sat in her car a full five minutes before she summoned up the courage to ring the bell.

An elderly gentleman opened the heavy wooden door, leaving a screen door between them. Was the estate sale for his wife? "Hello," he said in a tone that was both friendly and questioning.

"Hello Sir, my name is Miranda Kramer," she began, talking with a fast nervousness. "I'm sure you're busy, and I'll try to be brief. I bought a dress at a vintage clothing store downtown today, and I was told it came from at an estate sale here. I was wondering if you had any information about it."

"Well, I did have an estate sale here last weekend," he explained. "My mother died last month, and I had to sell some of her things."

Miranda tried to hide her surprise. His mother? This man looked like he could be 80. "I'm sorry for your loss," she offered.

"Thank you. She lived a good long life, just turned 103. She was quite a lady. It's sad for me, but she was ready to go."

"Wow, 103. That is pretty incredible," Miranda replied. "This was a blue dress with lace overlays from the Victorian era. Do you remember it?"

"That was her wedding dress," he said fondly. "It belonged to her mother. No wait, that's not right, it was her grandmother. I hated to sell it, but what am I going to do with it? I'm an old bachelor with no children, and my only sister died as an infant. Besides, I had so many bills from her nursing care the past few years, I had no choice but to sell anything worth selling."

"I understand," she said, sadly thinking that she had an answer to her earlier curiosity over how such personal treasures end up on a for sale rack.

Miranda suddenly remembered that it was not the dress itself that had brought her there. "Did her grandmother's name happen to be Kathleen?" she asked expectantly.

"Well, let me think," he said, scratching his head. "I'm old, but she was even a little before my time. That would have been Grandpa's mother, and her name was…oh hell, what was it? The old noggin doesn't work as well as it used to. Wait a minute. Margaret. Yes, that was her name."

"Was there a Kathleen anywhere in her family?" Miranda hoped.

"Doesn't ring a bell," he replied. "Of course there were lots of aunts and great-aunts and such that I never knew. May I ask why you are looking for a Kathleen in our family?"

Miranda gently pulled the folded yellowed paper out of her purse. "I found this in the pocket of the dress. It seems to be the handwritten wedding vows of someone named Kathleen. I plan on getting married in that dress, and I'm not exactly sure why, but I feel like I'm meant to learn more about her."

The man furrowed his brow and stared at the paper as though it had sparked a hint of recognition. Finally, he nodded his head he smiled. "Lord of mercy, I had forgotten all about that. I think I know what you're looking for, if I can find it. Would you like to come in?"

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

The Wedding Dress

Chapter 4

It had been a long and particularly trying day, and Matt Dillon decided that he had earned a drink. He walked through the batwing doors of The Long Branch Saloon, as he had done thousands before, and nodded to the lady behind the bar.

"Good Evening, Marshal," she called jovially as a couple of familiar patrons turned around at the mention of his name.

"Hello, Fran," he returned wearily. "Can I get a beer?"

"You sure can," she said as she grabbed a mug and filled it.

Nathan Burke stood at the end of the bar, shooting the breeze with Deputy Festus Haggen and a new coworker from the freight office. He watched as the haggard looking marshal took his beer and began to drink alone.

"Look at that," Burke said in a low voice, with a tone that indicated something interesting was happening. He elbowed Festus in the side and subtly tilted his head toward the Matt.

"Look at what?" Festus asked with a hint of annoyance.

"The marshal. Don't you think he looks upset? And how come he's not even acknowledging us? He's just sitting there drinking by himself."

"So what?" Festus bellowed, clearly not pleased with Burke's assessment. "Cain't a feller come in and get hisself a drink without havin' to jaw with every yahoo in the place?"

"Oh come on, Festus," Burke chided. "You know as well as I do that he hasn't been the same since Miss Kitty left. I think it's really getting to him."

Festus did know—the whole town knew. They had held their collective breath months ago as the marshal once again sat at the bedside of his injured lover, willing her to live. And they had exhaled with relief when she did, confident that Dodge City would return to normal. Her recovery had been slow, first at Doc's and then in her own bed, and he had spent every spare minute taking care of her. Floyd had taken over running The Long Branch while she recuperated, and every day friends and patrons waited for what would surely be her triumphant return to work. No one was prepared when The Long Branch was once again run by a woman, but that woman was not Miss Kitty Russell.

Fran had appeared in town with no fanfare and no explanations. Anyone who asked was told she had bought the saloon, nothing more. The woman she had replaced had disappeared one day as quietly as Fran had arrived. She certainly wasn't missing, as the marshal wasn't out looking for her. Where had she gone, and why?

The rumors had begun flying almost immediately. Several men claimed to have heard her and the marshal arguing upstairs at The Long Branch shortly before she left town. Someone said he had seen her leaving on the stage very early one morning, as though she was sneaking away. The evidence all pointed to one unhappy conclusion—after almost 20 years, Kitty Russell had had enough. After devoting most of her adult life to this man, after all the heartbreaks and injuries, he still couldn't give her what she needed. And so, she had left the place she called home and was trying to start over somewhere else.

Matt finished his beer in solitude and headed toward the door. He stopped at the end of the bar to say a word to his deputy before leaving. "Festus, I need to talk to you about something. Would you mind coming by the office when you're done here?"

"Sure thang, Matthew," he replied as he raised his mug. "I'll finish this'n up and be right on over."

"Thanks Festus," Matt replied, nodding at his friend before making his way out.

"Wonder what that's all about?" Burke asked curiously. "He sounded kind of serious."

"Burke, is there anybody's business you don't stick that big ole nose o' yors in?" Festus asked with exaggerated irritation. "I'm sure it's nothin' to get all bothered about." With that, Festus polished off the rest of his beer in two large gulps and hurried over to the jail.

**GSGSGSGSGSGSGSGSGS**

Kitty stood outside the stage office, her stomach full of excited butterflies as she clutched the telegraph she had received last week. They had never been apart for this long before, and there had been times when she had wondered if this day would ever come. She read the telegraph one more time, as if she needed to make sure it was real.

_Plans confirmed. Arriving on afternoon stage Wednesday, May 30. M._

She couldn't wait for him to see the house-he hadn't been there in weeks, and she had done so much work to it. She had been recovering from the bullet wound when he first heard about the ranch for sale in Cimarron and decided to check it out. Work took him away from Dodge so often that nobody thought twice when he was gone for several days.

He came back with a smile and a signed contract. He had put down the deposit, knowing the sale of The Long Branch would pay for the rest, with a good bit of savings left over. Kitty had been a fine businesswoman indeed.

He had finally mailed the letter of resignation that had been sitting in his desk for two years. There was just one problem—the U.S. War Department didn't have a suitable replacement ready. They had men they could send, but no one with the kind of experience it took to keep order in a place like Dodge City. Of course they couldn't stop him from resigning immediately, but they could appeal to the sense of duty and responsibility that was his reputation. The Secretary had made a special trip to talk to him personally and ask If he could give them a few months. They were sure to have someone trained by then.

Matt knew what he felt was right, but he couldn't in good conscience make that decision without Kitty. He had made too many decisions without her over the years, and it was finally her turn to have a say about their future. As eager as she was to start their new life, she couldn't be happy knowing they were leaving their friends in Dodge as sitting ducks with inadequate protection. Kitty agreed that they would wait to move until the War Department was confident in his successor.

Matt had a slightly different plan. "They" would not wait—he would. There was no way he was taking a chance on anything else happening to her because he was still the marshal and she still ran a saloon. No way. She would move to the ranch in Cimarron as soon as possible, and no one was to know where she had gone. He had even talked to the owner about hiring his ranch hand to help her with the place until he got there. People could think what they wanted, but nothing was going to stop him from sending her into quiet anonymity where he knew she would be safe until he was able to join her.

Nobody told Kitty Russell what to do, and they'd had a terrible fight over it up in her room one evening. "What if takes longer than they're telling you?" she argued, wanting to remain positive but mindful of the many healthy doses of reality she'd been forced to swallow over the years. "What am I supposed to do, Matt, just sit there knitting by myself indefinitely?"

It wouldn't be like that, he assured her. He had told the Secretary he would stay for 6 months and not a day longer, and the Secretary had promised to have a replacement by then. After that, they would have the rest of their lives. But as expected, it was a tough sell to the stubborn redhead who saw no need for them to be apart when she wasn't under any threat.

Matt knew he was out of aces. He had used up all his rational arguments, such as they were. He had nothing left but raw emotion, and in a rare display he decided to lay it out. "Kitty, I've loved you for 20 years, and I've worried about you just as long. I've done my best to protect you, and my best wasn't always good enough. You know what this job means to me, and you know that I'm leaving it because you mean more. If something were to happen to you before we get to Cimarron—I wouldn't be able to handle it, Kitty. I wouldn't. I barely made it through this last time. It's 6 months—I hate the thought of not being together for that long every bit as much as you do, but if I know that in 6 months and one day I get to wake up with you every morning for the rest of my life, it's worth it. Please—give me this peace of mind."

Kitty rarely found herself speechless, but this was one of those times. She swallowed hard and stared at the pearl ring surrounded by tiny diamonds that had adorned her left hand since he had proposed. "Okay," she said softly. "I'll go."

It had been the longest 6 months of both their lives. Matt had only managed to visit twice, and only for a couple of days each time. He mailed her a letter any time he was out of town, knowing her location would not remain a secret if he took it to the Dodge Post Office. Doc always sent a letter with him to mail, knowing she couldn't answer but keeping his promise to write as often as possible.

They hadn't told a soul other than Doc about their plans. As much as they hated the thought of their friends thinking she had abandoned him, if too many people knew they might as well not do it. Festus, bless his heart, had the biggest mouth this side of Burke, and they couldn't in good conscience tell Newly without telling Festus. They decided that their friends would know soon enough, when they were invited to the wedding. It was safer to beg forgiveness than ask permission.

Kitty saw the stage appear in the distance and her heart began to pound. This was really happening. The day she had waited for the past 6 months—the past 20 years, in all honesty—was here. The stage came to a halt and she caught a glimpse of him through the tiny window. She knew he would be there, but a part of her couldn't help but prepare for disappointment. Old habits die hard.

The door opened and a young couple exited the stage and stretched their legs. Always the gentleman, Matt Dillon stepped out last and beamed at his future bride. He was wearing his dark gray coat and his black western tie, and she thought he might look finer than the day she had met him.

How many times over the years had she met his stage, eager to reunite after his job had taken him away on official business? Too many to count. They would smile and nod at each other, and she would say, "How was your trip?" as he touched her shoulder and promised to come by later and tell her all about it. But he was no longer a U.S. Marshal, and they were no longer in Dodge City. This time they ran into each other's arms and he kissed her long and hard, in front of the stage driver and the young couple and anyone else who happened to be walking along Main Street in Cimarron. They were like birds out of a cage, and they figured they might get used to freedom pretty quickly.

They talked during the entire buggy ride to the ranch, Kitty updating him on her progress with the house and Matt filling her in on his last day in Dodge. He had told Newly and Festus evening before last, and their shock was outweighed only by their excitement. How had he managed to keep this secret all these months? "Matthew, yer just about the sneakiest feller I ever knowed," Festus told him. "The way you pertended to be all bothered and lonesome like 'cause Miss Kitty had left. We was all worried."

"Oh, I wasn't pretending about that part," Matt had replied. "It wasn't an easy time for me, and I know it wasn't easy for you either. I'm sorry, Men—I just had to do it this way. I hope you understand."

They did. The new marshal had arrived yesterday and everyone had a good feeling about him. Last night Matt had taken Doc, Newly, and Festus out to dinner and they had toasted one hell of a partnership between four men who been closer than most families. They would all, of course, be coming in for the small wedding ceremony next week.

As their buggy pulled up to the white farmhouse, and Matt smiled at the sight of a pair of matching rocking chairs on the small front porch. He planned to keep pretty busy on the ranch, but he could already picture the two of them watching the sunset together with a tall glass of lemonade at the end of the day.

It was almost hard to believe he lived here now. No more cots in the jail, no more impersonal rooms at The Dodge House, no more nights of hard grounds and bland beans on the trail. He had a soft bed and a beautiful woman to share it with every single night. He had a home.

Matt took Kitty's hand and helped her out of the buggy, and he didn't let go as they walked into their house. It definitely had a woman's touch—new curtains in the window, a lace table runner on the buffet, pictures on the wall. "Would you like a tour?" she asked proudly. "I've done a lot of work around here."

Matt looked toward the upstairs bedrooms with a twinkle in his eyes. "Can we start up there?"

Kitty needed no convincing. They may be middle aged, but they had no intention of slowing down just yet. Two visits in six months had been torturous, and they hurried up the steps to make up for lost time.

They remained in bed for an hour, Kitty with her head resting on his chest, her hand stroking his stubble-filled face as his arms remained wrapped tightly around her. Deciding the time was right, Kitty propped herself up on one elbow and gave him a kiss on the cheek. "Well, would you like to see what you're getting yourself into, Cowboy? I finished the vows. At least my part, anyway."

Matt chuckled. Who but Kitty Russell would insist on writing her own vows? She had told him that she didn't like the traditional ones, and if she had to go door to door in order to find someone who would marry them on their terms she would. Yes, Matt Dillon knew exactly what he was getting himself into, and he couldn't be happier.

"Okay, let's take a look at what all you're going to promise me," he said with mock seriousness. She leaned over and opened the drawer of the night table, pulling out a piece of white paper neatly folded into quarters. He unfolded it and held it at arm's length so he could read it without his glasses. She studied his face carefully as his eyes moved across the straight lines of her lovely handwriting. When he finished, he gently folded it and sighed. "I suppose this means you're not going to obey me," he teased, trying not to smile.

"Now why would I want to start something like that after 20 years?" she shot back.

Matt laughed, placing the paper into her palm and squeezing her hand between both of his. "I love it, Kitty. I think it's what we should both say. It's perfect."

Kitty laid the paper on the night table and nuzzled her way back into position, almost on top of him. What a day it had been. She began happily thinking about the wedding, how wonderful it would be to see her friends again and what all she had to get done before they came. She started slowly drifting off to sleep, making a mental note to remember to put that piece of paper somewhere safe before she misplaced it. Maybe she should put it in the pocket of her wedding dress.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

The Wedding Dress

Chapter 5

Miranda stood nervously in the back of the chapel with her father and Patty. It was almost time, and all eyes would be on her. She didn't normally like being the center of attention, but it was rather unavoidable today. Patty double checked the bustle for her and then scanned her own dark purple Victorian maid of honor dress. "Are you _sure_ I don't look like an eggplant?" she asked, only half kidding.

"You look beautiful, Pats," her friend answered. "Remember, you're the one who said this theme wedding was a great idea. No complaints about the dress now."

Patty laughed. "No complaints. Let's get you married."

Miranda stuck her hand in her pocket for at least the fourth time, making sure it was still there. She knew it by heart, and the pastor would prompt them line by line anyway—but this was her something borrowed, and she couldn't imagine going through ceremony without it.

Her mind wandered back to that day on Old Orchard Road a few months ago, though it seemed like only yesterday. The kindly man had invited her in and brought out a small box of mementos that belonged to his mother, Clarice. Nothing of value to anyone but him, and he wasn't sure what would happen to them once he was gone.

The day he reluctantly placed his mother's wedding dress in the pile of items for the estate sale, he took solace in the knowledge that he could still see it any time he wanted, in the photo of the beautiful bride and handsome groom that adorned the pewter frame in the hallway. He had seen the letter his great-grandmother had written about that dress many decades ago, but he had forgotten about it until an attractive young lady stood on his porch with a yellow piece of paper asking about someone named Kathleen.

He opened the box and sifted through loose photos and old report cards until he found an envelope with only his mother's first name written on it. He handed it to Miranda and said, "I think this will explain what you found in the pocket." It was a long letter, and she began to read it in silence.

"I'm sorry, but would you mind reading it out loud?" he asked. "It's been a long time and I'd kind of like to hear it again."

Miranda started over, speaking slowly and clearly to the gentleman who appeared to be a little hard of hearing. The words were powerful, and she paused in several places to absorb them.

_My Dearest Clarice,_

_As my time on this earth nears its end, I find myself thinking most about those I love and the legacy I wish to leave them. I had only sons, and they will inherit my estate along with what I hope are fond memories of growing up in a happy home. But much to my joy they have given me granddaughters, and I feel privileged to be able to leave each of you something just as valuable._

_You are my oldest, and the one most like me. You are stubborn and independent and sometimes a little too smart for your own good, and I couldn't be prouder of you. The world may tell you that those are not qualities befitting a woman, but remember this—if you always listen to the world, you will never realize your true potential._

_I am bequeathing to you the greatest gift I have to offer, the dress I wore on the day I married your grandfather. I know it is not the white gown that brides today prefer, but in my day most women didn't have the luxury of buying a special wedding dress. We used our Sunday dress if it was nice enough, and if not we borrowed from friends or relatives._

_I was given this dress by woman so dear to me I called her Mama from the time I was about your age. Her name was Kitty Dillon, and I met her when she and her husband bought the ranch next to ours in Cimarron. I was barely thirteen, and my real mother had died two years earlier. Kitty saw me outside one day and came over to visit. She was kind and funny and beautiful, and I told her I wished my Pa would meet someone like her because I missed having a mother. She told me that she had lost her mother at a young age too, and that I could come to her any time I needed a woman's advice. I took that offer to heart, and before long I was over there almost every day. Looking back, I'm sure I made a pest of myself at times. But she always made me feel welcome, teaching me how to cook and knit and fix my hair, just as I'm sure my mother would have done. _

_The most important thing I learned from Kitty had nothing to do with keeping a house or making myself look pretty. She was the first woman I ever knew who didn't follow a path in life that someone else laid out for her, and she convinced me that I could do the same. I had been raised to think like most girls, that we were the weaker sex and the good Lord had made men to take care of us. Kitty suggested that the weaker sex might be the one that complained of exhaustion after watching his wife in hard labor for twelve hours. One of her dearest friends was a doctor, and she would tell me stories about brave women who had endured under the worst of circumstances. _

_Kitty was well into her 40's when she married, and until then I had never heard of such a thing. I once asked her why she waited so long, and she said she could have married a lesser man as a young woman but decided it was worth taking a chance on the one she deserved. She had run a successful saloon by herself for many years in Dodge City, and she didn't care if people disapproved of her unconventional lifestyle. As she once told me, the only person you have to face in the mirror is yourself, and if you can be proud of who's looking back that's all that matters._

_The man she had waited for was Matt Dillon, a handsome, imposing man who spent 20 years as the marshal of Dodge City before retiring to marry her. They had been together most of that time and never mentioned why they didn't marry sooner. Before I knew them, I couldn't imagine spending half your life waiting for one person. After I knew them, somehow it seemed perfectly natural._

_The first boy who ever courted me was Billy Watkins. He was 17 and I was 16, and he was considered quite the catch in our little town. A lot of folks told me I should be grateful that such a boy was interested, but I wasn't so sure about him. Kitty invited us to dinner one night so she could check him out for herself. Billy did his best to impress them, especially Mr. Dillon, who had a reputation well beyond Dodge as a tough, virile man's man. Billy regaled them with stories of his skills with a six-shooter and how he figured there wasn't a man around who could take him in a fair fight. I suppose he thought if anything would make a favorable impression to the formal marshal and his wife, it would be that._

_After Billy left, I asked them what they thought of him. Kitty glanced at her husband and said, "Maggie, I can't tell you what to do but I can tell you what I've learned over the years. A great man doesn't have to tell you what makes him a great man. You just know." Matt smiled and put his arm around her waist. He wasn't much of a talker, but he spoke when he had something important to say. He was a legend in our parts, the fastest gun in the west during his prime, but his assessment of Billy Watkins as a man came down to how he had treated a woman. "He kept interrupting you, and he let you wait on him all night. Don't settle, Maggie. You can do better."_

_I did do better. I met your grandfather two years later, and he was the love of my life. He respected me enough to let me be my own person, and loved me enough to stick with that person unconditionally for the rest of his life. Kitty was right—you just know. When we got married, she knew my Pa didn't have much money and asked if I wanted to wear the dress she had worn when she married Matt. She could well afford to have one made for the occasion, but he had always told her she was the most beautiful sight in that blue dress that matched her eyes, and she saw no reason to wear anything else. It's not the dress that matters at a wedding, she told me. It's how you feel and what you say when you're in it, and whether you really mean it. _

_So my gift to you, dear Clarice, is not only the dress I wore on the happiest day of my life, but something even more meaningful. In the right pocket you will find a piece of paper containing the wedding vows Kitty wrote when she finally married the man for whom she had most definitely not settled. They were unlike any vows of the time, perhaps unlike any since, and she had to search to find someone who would marry them with these words they had agreed upon together. She said she understood if we didn't want to use their vows in our ceremony, but she hoped we would live them every day of our marriage. We did both._

_Kitty had no children of her own, and she wanted me to have this dress to pass down to mine. And so I now pass it on to you, my dear granddaughter. I hope you cherish it as I have, not only for its loveliness but for what it represents. May it be a reminder to you that when the world expects you to be something you are not, it is better to change the world than to change yourself. Choose your life's journey, and take pride in knowing that you owned every mistake and earned every success along the way. And when that journey nears its end, keep alive the memories of the great women who took you by the hand and led you there._

_With Love,_

_Grammy_

Miranda slowly placed the letter back in the envelope and took a deep, shaky breath.

"Thank you," she said quietly, emotionally, unzipping her purse and retrieving the little piece of history that had led her there. "I can't keep this, it belonged to your mother."

"Seems to me it belongs to the owner of the dress," he said sincerely. "I know we just met, but somehow I feel like that was meant to be you."

Miranda smiled. She had that feeling too. Perhaps she just wanted it to be true, and it was all a coincidence. But she chose to believe that at this most important time of her life, somehow, from somewhere, her mother was getting to say, "I told you so," from the right pocket of a blue dress that wouldn't let her leave the little shop in Topeka . And maybe the remarkable Kathleen—or Kitty, as she was known according to the letter—had taken her mother by the hand and led her there.

The End


End file.
